The Joy of the First Long Run

A first-ever five-mile run is cause for celebration--and a nap

I lifted my lips from the tar and brushed off a few pebbles with the back of my hand. A little dramatic I know, but I had just hit the halfway mark of my first attempt at a five-mile run–a distance that only months ago would have been preposterous to imagine much less attempt. When I began running, I promised only to get out consistently. Five was never a goal. I'm a dreamer, not a fool. Five miles, like flavored coffee and lightning strikes, were for other people. Now at the turnaround, I felt relieved, nervous, celebratory, exhausted, and well, a little dramatic. To my credit, I did not burst into tears or subject my running partners, Ben and Gerry, to any bear hugs. I did not draw any dewy conclusions about adversity and perseverance, or envision a windswept mountaintop or soaring eagle or yellow-leafed road less traveled; I didn't so much as hum the Rocky theme song that morning, but I did bend over and kiss the ground. Nobody's perfect.

"I'd watch him if I were you," Ben said to Gerry. "He appears to be in an amorous mood, and you're cuter than I am."

I rose to my knees, panting, and the two of them stood on the side of the road laughing while Gerry's Lab dropped a turd into the weeds. At his feet, Ben's dog, a tiny Schnoodle, walked in circles, impatient for us to return to the run.

There are several ways to push past your boundaries in running or probably just about anything else. You do so with determination or heroics, by accident or on purpose, or because you have been tricked into doing so. Having ever run only three miles, I suddenly agreed to attempt five at the previous night's invitation from Ben–an invitation snuck between glasses of wine and marinated in the kind of jocular atmosphere of gathered friends that would have me agreeing to almost anything. He could have asked me to stand on the road with him and flap until we got airborne and I would have gone along with it.

As we began to make our way back, I blamed the Schnoodle for the fact that I was feeling so winded. It trotted ahead of us pulling against its leash. You run faster with a Schnoodle than without. Keep that in mind when considering what must be an otherwise decent animal. Under a torrent of conversation, I estimated our total distance in a kind of grim personal countdown. When we passed what I guessed was the threemile mark, the real adventure began. The road swung left and right, up and down, but mostly up. When you run out and back, it's not possible to run uphill more than down, yet I swore that's exactly what we were doing. Gerry, sensing my quiet despair, unleashed a secret weapon–he turned to Ben and asked him to "dust off a few old chestnuts." With that began a rapid-fire barrage of jokes–hilarious, vulgar classics that I could repeat only if drunk or anonymous. By the top of the next hill, Ben was doing a joke a minute. Gerry and I howled like ghosts. The road became invisible, irrelevant. The run itself somehow became the words between us. I lost track of time, how far we'd gone, how much farther we had to go. Gerry's dog must have stopped at least three more times. I relished each pause.

"I love when the Lab poops," I said.

"Gerry's favorite part of the run is watching the Lab poop," Ben said. "His favorite part of life in general, I suspect."

When we made it to Gerry's driveway, he peeled off to leave me to Ben and the Schnoodle for the last half mile–a half mile that is a gradual uphill in its entirety. In no time, our speed inched to just shy of what was for me a sprint. We ran side by side without talking. I let out a whoop every 20 or so yards–half despairing, half cheering myself on. Ben's feet stabbed out in front of him with incredible swiftness, as he leaned forward, his face took on an aerodynamic quality–chin and nose breaking forward, shock of hair sweeping smoothly back. I began to see stars and ran toward them. My face tingled and floated down through the rest of my body in what I've since learned was something probably called bonking.

When we finally hit the driveway, I was filled with a rush of emotion that I held inside–no kissing the ground or any other ridiculous drama. I had just run five miles, and five miles makes you different. I felt it immediately. Embellishments beyond that are unnecessary. Ben and I paced and caught our breath and he asked if this was truly my first five. I told him it was. His face grew serious and his eyes warmed and he held my shoulder and said it was a privilege. But the privilege was all mine.

I went back into the house and lay down on the floor and fell promptly to sleep. A five-mile run makes everything that is not a five-mile run feel extremely comfortable. The throw rug on the wood floor never felt so luxurious. I'm told, after checking to see that I was still breathing, my wife and kids stepped around me for the better part of an hour.

Later in the day, I wanted to walk up to every stranger and tell them I just ran five. At the shopping center, I seriously thought people might see it for themselves. I felt like a completely different person–different from anyone who hadn't run five–far more different than if I were wearing a bird suit and people would certainly notice and possibly comment on that. Maybe the checkout woman would finish my order and say, Total is $58.60 and–wait, did you just run five miles? Strangers in the parking lot would yell across the rows of cars, Yo–five-mile... Yo–Hawaii 5-0... Yo–fivealicious.

For the whole day, the number five was mine alone. I couldn't shake that wired buzz of the runner's high, and didn't want to. Like a first-time drunk, I subjected everyone within earshot to its effects in an endless loop of bad jokes–Knock knock, who's there? Five miles! Why did the chicken cross the road? Because it couldn't do five miles like I just did! Guy walks into a bar and says, Hey, I just ran five miles! Difference between me and a giraffe? Giraffe can clean its muzzle with its tongue, and I just ran five miles, baby!

After eating like crazy and taking a second nap, I went to bed early. Much to the relief of everyone around me. Before falling asleep, I went over the details of each mile. How many people in the world can run five miles? I wondered. Whatever the number, I couldn't believe I was one of them. For the first time since I had begun, I finally felt like I was a runner. Each person will cross a different threshold to reach that point. For me, five miles makes it the real deal. Five miles means when someone asks if I'm a runner, I can say at last without clearing my throat or looking down or touching the side of my nose or straightening up unnaturally to compensate for a half-truth, "Yes, I am."